Monday, December 5, 2011
Submissions
We will be doing a special printed issue of Graffiti Kolkata Broadside in January instead of the regular issues of November and December.....all are welcome to flood us with your submissions.....
Send your submissions pasted on the body of an e mail to
subhankar.das45@gmail.com
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Monday, July 4, 2011
Monday, June 13, 2011
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Monday, September 6, 2010
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
The Bus
After long deliberation and argument when the Parijat
and placenta had gone out of our consciousness
then a mysterious lily cropped up in Subhankar’s glass.
In awe or anticipation cried out the two golden retrievers.
Throwing a stone bowl full of Belli flowers at the plasma TV,
Somnath shouted at me: Bastard! Are you
a jester or a magician black, who relish owl’s heart
with virgin’s blood.
Failing to pass the exams thrice at Taxila the boy
moved to Nalanda.
He, who meditated upon the Upanishadic philosophy of
Brahma – the creator and the created, spanked on the
buttocks of a loose Krishna worshipper, lifting her
saffron robes and thrashing her out.
In the vicinity of nineteenth century Calcutta indigo
and salt were being produced in Prince Dwarkanath’s
estate. To paint the portrait of Sita, eloped by
Ravana, Paul Gauguin was putting up red hibiscuses
on his yellow Jesus.
Where have you brought me, O saviour!
There’s nothing like non-reality,
everything vibrates into tunes of love.
In a midnight private bus
Two middle-aged women wiped my blood and tears.
Calcutta, the city of ominous fertility
gives birth to acres of Art, merges the mundane into true sublime.
By Sreedhar Mukhopadhayay
and placenta had gone out of our consciousness
then a mysterious lily cropped up in Subhankar’s glass.
In awe or anticipation cried out the two golden retrievers.
Throwing a stone bowl full of Belli flowers at the plasma TV,
Somnath shouted at me: Bastard! Are you
a jester or a magician black, who relish owl’s heart
with virgin’s blood.
Failing to pass the exams thrice at Taxila the boy
moved to Nalanda.
He, who meditated upon the Upanishadic philosophy of
Brahma – the creator and the created, spanked on the
buttocks of a loose Krishna worshipper, lifting her
saffron robes and thrashing her out.
In the vicinity of nineteenth century Calcutta indigo
and salt were being produced in Prince Dwarkanath’s
estate. To paint the portrait of Sita, eloped by
Ravana, Paul Gauguin was putting up red hibiscuses
on his yellow Jesus.
Where have you brought me, O saviour!
There’s nothing like non-reality,
everything vibrates into tunes of love.
In a midnight private bus
Two middle-aged women wiped my blood and tears.
Calcutta, the city of ominous fertility
gives birth to acres of Art, merges the mundane into true sublime.
By Sreedhar Mukhopadhayay
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Monday, May 10, 2010
Dy(e)ing Craft
Remember? After completing the designs,
you stretched the cloth across the frame
and fastened it with pins.
You always had beeswax-bars
in your pocket; smudging the silk
to avoid pigmentation. It looked
allid with the paraffin etched on its skin.
I took up where you left. Picking
colours—one or two, with a hint
of gloss. I daubed...daubed; colours rich
in subdued shades. Mixing and separating.
Nothing could seep in
through wax.
I wrung till the veins didn’t
crack. Dye-bathed till the colours
didn’t make seepage patterns.
The thousand suns has melted
the surface. The fabric now
is a vintage batik, mounted
on the walls, for the people to marvel.
~June Nandy
http://throughthestripedshirt.blogspot.com.
you stretched the cloth across the frame
and fastened it with pins.
You always had beeswax-bars
in your pocket; smudging the silk
to avoid pigmentation. It looked
allid with the paraffin etched on its skin.
I took up where you left. Picking
colours—one or two, with a hint
of gloss. I daubed...daubed; colours rich
in subdued shades. Mixing and separating.
Nothing could seep in
through wax.
I wrung till the veins didn’t
crack. Dye-bathed till the colours
didn’t make seepage patterns.
The thousand suns has melted
the surface. The fabric now
is a vintage batik, mounted
on the walls, for the people to marvel.
~June Nandy
http://throughthestripedshirt.blogspot.com.
Return
Got back around dark.
You were sad, and
hadn’t got out of bed all day.
There wasn’t much in the house.
I lit a candle.
We had hummus on crackers,
and lay close.
The little flame warmed us.
We will be ok.
by Doug Mathewson
You were sad, and
hadn’t got out of bed all day.
There wasn’t much in the house.
I lit a candle.
We had hummus on crackers,
and lay close.
The little flame warmed us.
We will be ok.
by Doug Mathewson
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